The Glory of Living

I can’t explain this feeling,
this sense of curiosity and anxiety
ineffable, really.
It’s a fullness centered in my core,
and I can imagine staring at the sky
and cupping my hands, filling my palms
with the touch of ancient starlight,
and the breath of distant
souls –of the forgotten world and the world to come;
I can feel it beating against my breast
and between my fingers
deep as an ocean, deeper than history,
smoothed by hands that have come and go-
passed by for an instant
and left without realization.
Perhaps it is hiraeth
a belonging here and there,
 one foot here and
another holding open a distant door.
How can there be a quarter of a million words
in the English language, and not one
can describe the freeness of my heart,
leaving me with a myriad of words to make do?
I lay here, supine, and feel like neither moving
or speaking because of this fullness and this emptiness,
the gloriousness of living.
It’s overwhelming and not enough and
beautiful and ugly and it’s a candle flame
that burns higher and higher, until I’m one with
fire and ash and nothing.